THE OPEN WINDOW THE old house by the lindens I saw the nursery windows The large Newfoundland house-dog They walked not under the lindens, But shadow, and silence, and sadness, Were hanging over all. The birds sang in the branches, With sweet, familiar tone; But the voices of the children Will be heard in dreams alone! And the boy that walked beside me Why closer in mine, ah! closer, KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN WITLAF, a king of the Saxons, Ere yet his last he breathed, That, whenever they sat at their revels, And drank from the golden bowl, They might remember the donor, And breathe a prayer for his soul So sat they once at Christmas, In their beards the red wine glistened They drank to the soul of Witlaf, They drank to the Saints and Martyrs And as soon as the horn was empty And the reader droned from the pulpit, The legend of good Saint Guthlac, Till the great bells of the convent, Proclaimed the midnight hour And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney, Yet still in his pallid fingers He clutched the golden bowl, But not for this their revels The jovial monks forbore, For they cried," Fill high the goblet ! GASPAR BECERRA. By his evening fire the artist Pondered o'er his secret shame; Baffled, weary, and disheartened, Still he mused, and dreamed of fame "T was an image of the Virgin That had tasked his utmost skill; But alas! his fair ideal Vanished and escaped him still |